


Iris

by SomewhatByronically



Series: Petals and Ink [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arson, Explicit Language, Florist Bard, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tattoo Artist Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhatByronically/pseuds/SomewhatByronically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue irises symbolize hope.</p><p>Normally Thranduil–a renowned tattoo artist–only has to worry about finishing his commissions and twisting Thorin’s arm into turning in the rent on time.  But a couple of weeks ago, Erebor suspiciously caught fire and Smaug broke his lease in a hurry to distance himself from Thranduil’s bad luck.  And now?  The only person interested in setting up shop between a dive bar and a tattoo studio is a florist.  An attractive florist, maybe, but Thranduil has a reputation to maintain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was completed for the 2015 Barduil Bang. Thank you so much to everyone who made this possible.

“ADA!  We need to leave!”

Thranduil looks up to see his son standing in the doorway of the office, face twisted in panic.  There’s only a still, silent, moment before the fire alarms inside of Mirkwood start shrieking.

Steeling himself, Thranduil’s words clip, “Where’s Tauriel?”  Not waiting for a response, he grabs his black leather jacket off the back of the chair and closes his portfolio.  He gathers it into his arms and falls in step behind Legolas.  Thoughts fixed and focused on anything but the wailing of the alarm or the fast approaching sirens.

“She’s already out front,” Legolas replies as they hurry down the stairs and through the work room.  Without so much as a  second thought, they make their way past the front desk and out the door.

Stepping into the chilly fall morning, Thranduil takes a deep breath and surveys his side of the street.  These storefronts are some of the few properties that he cherry-picked from his father’s real estate “empire.”  (Oropher had always said “empire” in a tone layered with the thick and sweet trappings of modern capitalism.)  Thranduil sold the rest when Oropher died and the money now sat accruing interest in a “Send Legolas to Uni” fund, despite the fact that Legolas was fast passing the traditional  age.

Durinson and his spawn are huddled outside Erebor, looking more grieved than injured.  Eleven in the morning is before their opening hours and Thorin, the annoying prat who Thranduil leased the space to, is bemoaning his mahogany bar.  (Thranduil isn’t sure whether Thorin loves that bar or life itself more.)  So, with some uncertainty, Thranduil can assume that everyone made it out alright.  

He let his eyes glide down the street while recalling where the insurance information sat locked up in his flat.  Though his gaze catches on one Smaug Serpens standing outside of his antique shop between Erebor and Mirkwood.  He’s staring directly at the bar, calm, with his hands tucked into his pockets of his grey slacks.  Almost as if he had expected such an “interruption” today.  Thranduil swears there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips, but everyone always said that he was seeing things.

His attention snaps back to Erebor as smoke starts to billow out of the doors, meeting some firemen in full gear pushing into the building.

The ground seems to drop away from underneath his feet and an intense wave of vertigo hits him as he involuntarily fixates on the thick, char-black, smoke.  He can’t even burn toast these days without being reminded of crumbling support beams and splinters flying everywhere.  Of a hoarse coughing and shouting, demanding that he take Legolas and run.  The whining and creaking that came just before the second floor collapsed into the first.  The memories wash up on shores of his mind and stain them black.  He will spend days scrubbing the sand clean.  

But right now, before he can drown, Legolas is a warm presence pressed against his side and steadying him.  With it, he finds the strength to break his eyes away from the smoke, smiling weakly at his son in thanks.

Gathering his resolve, he turns his attention to The Shire and strides single-mindedly towards its doors.  He tries to ignore the tremor in his hands and how his normally comfortable jacket feels oppressive and constricting. Stepping inside, he nearly runs into Bilbo, who is too occupied staring at the smoke rising out of Erebor and struggling into his coat to watch where he is going.

“‘cuse me, Thranduil.  Frodo’s at the till,” Bilbo mutters.  He is in quite the hurry to check on the Durinsons.

The Shire was one of the last properties that Thranduil had sold off; to a quiet, nervous man who was spending the last of his inheritance on “one last adventure.”  Frodo and Legolas were younger then and Ospien laughed when she heard Thranduil describe the buyer.  She wasn’t convinced that someone as wilting as Bilbo could deal with the customer service element of a cafe.  Fortunately,  his adventure was a success.  Turns out that Bilbo had a bit of mettle in him and now The Shire has a long list of loyal customers.  And every once in awhile, thanks to the quirks The Shire entertains, a new face would wander in and stay long enough to become a familiar one.  Grand armchairs and side tables alongside the more traditional furnishing one might find in a coffee shop; a small library that patrons could check out books from; and saplings that sat in windowsills through the whole year, just waiting to grow big enough to plant around the city’s green areas.  Most of all, it was thanks to Bilbo’s specialty drinks.  The most popular being My Precious: a strong, spiced, black tea of Bilbo’s own blend mixed with a cream-whiskey liqueur.  My Precious is what really put the cafe on the map.

Thranduil watches Bilbo’s back as he rushes off to accost Thorin.  Bilbo is a patient man.  Far more patient with the Durinson’s than Thranduil will ever be and it’s just a bonus that he rather regularly guilts Thorin into turning the rent in on time.  Thranduil sighs to himself and wanders towards the counter, taking up a seat at the bar and hanging his jacket over the back.  As he settles in, he reopens his portfolio to pour over the lineart of a recent commission and Frodo ambles over, fingers worrying at the edge of his apron.

“G-good to see you M-Mr. Lasgalen, sir.”

Frodo has always been as nervous as Bilbo was before the cafe happened.  He really needs an adventure of his own.  Despite his low-level distress, Thranduil makes his best attempt at a genuinely warm, disarming, smile and speaks softly, “I’ve known you and your uncle for years Frodo, Thranduil is just fine.”

“Alright, Th-Thr-Thranduil,” Frodo began with hesitation.  It is as if he had to weigh the name in his mouth, as though  it is a word he is struggling to understand. Thranduil is certain now, no seventeen-year-old should be this nervous.  “Your usual?”

“Not today,” Thranduil begins.  He and Legolas were in The Shire often enough that Bilbo often threatened to name drinks after them.  This also meant that Thranduil only let himself indulge in Bilbo’s alcoholic drinks on special occasions.  His shop burning down seemed like a good enough reason.  Being honest, he needs a drink and he needs it **now**.  “My Precious with vanilla and without the whipped cream, ” Thranduil finishes, turning back to the papers on the counter.  He smirks to himself as he remembers what he is wearing.

“Alright, be r-right out,” Frodo adds before scurrying away to prepare the drink.  

Maybe Frodo did have a reason to be so jumpy.  Thranduil had no appointments scheduled today, so without his jacket, his arms and most of his torso is bared to the world.  It’s a worn, old tank top with sleeve holes that run the length of the garment.   Anyone within shouting distance is getting an eyeful of the blood-red dragon tattoo that wraps around his torso and onto his back and that’s not to mention the old burn scars.  His merlot-red skinny jeans are slightly more modest, but they still cling to every curve of his legs.  His smirk softens into a sad smile.  He had always been a bit vain and proud of his looks, and despite it’s best efforts, the fire hadn’t changed that.  Poor Frodo was at the perfect distance to see it all while he was taking Thranduil’s order.

Without taking his eyes off his work, Thranduil reaches into his coat pocket to retrieve a hair tie.  He momentarily puts his pen down and gathers his hair in a loose bun so that it would stop dragging over the page at inopportune times.  Finally, he hums as he focuses back on the commission and nods appreciatively as Frodo sets the drink on the counter.

~~~~~~~~~

At some point Thranduil had texted Legolas and shafted the responsibilities of dealing with the firemen onto him.  So, between his focus on the drawing and Bilbo so quietly refilling his drink, Thranduil had entirely lost track of time.  He’s now a few drinks--and well into lightly buzzed territory--later.  Looking up, Thranduil can see Bilbo cleaning dishes and conversing with someone on the other side of the bar.  The espresso machine sitting on the counter obscures the tall stranger’s face, but the baser parts of Thranduil’s brain, somewhat liberated by the alcohol, can’t help but notice the nice curves and edges they cut into Bilbo’s bar.  The combination of the alcohol, the impossibly broad shoulders, and _\--that fine ass.  Wait, wait, what? --_ well-tailored slacks isn’t doing Thranduil’s self-control any favors.

Blushing slightly at the direction of his thoughts, he refocuses on his work in an attempt to chase them out of his mind.  Whilst in The Shire, it had evolved into an wooden, lattice-like thing curved so that it  looks like a hollow sphere.  Inside, settled at the bottom, are leaves of muted orange and red, reminiscent of the fall scene outside.  He stares at his drawing, making minor adjustments until he hears the footsteps pass behind him and out of the shop.  Looking up again, he calls Bilbo over for the check.

“It’s no matter, Thranduil,” he says with a casual and content smile as he wipes down a glass.  With Bilbo in such a chipper mood, everything must be relatively alright over in Erebor.

This isn’t the first time he’s tried to let him off the check and thus it’s not the first time that Thranduil hides a fifty underneath the tea saucer.  They don’t speak often, but to say they are just friendly acquaintances would be essentially incorrect.

As he leaves The Shire, portfolio and jacket tucked underneath his arm, the first thing he notices is Legolas patiently fielding verbal abuse from Thorin and generally letting him cause a scene.  Thranduil sighs with irritation but shortly thereafter swells with pride as he sees his son morph into a spitting image of his mother.   Calm and reserved, but overwhelming Thorin with cutting words to take him down a notch.  Thorin grumbles at being bested and storms off to help Fili and Kili who are currently gutting Erebor.  They are nearly finished removing all of the (relatively) undamaged goods to be stored until they can restore Erebor to its former glory.

He still needs to hear the firemen’s report from Legolas, but the structure itself should be fine.  Before moving in and leasing the spaces, Thranduil had the main structural aspects fireproofed and each storefront isolated from the others.  After everything that had happened all those years ago, he could not be too careful. Unfortunately, the thing that brings Thranduil out of his musings is the severe face of Mr. Serpens waiting for him at the door of Mirkwood.

“I don’t think you properly understand the gravity of this situation, Thranduil,” Smaug begins, clearly starting in on a tirade.  “Someone might’ve died--or worse, I could’ve lost valuable property!”

Thranduil keeps himself from sighing dramatically or letting his buzzed brain do anything else he might regret whilst sober.  So he just sits quietly and lets the rant wash over him, only showing the vaguest commitment to hearing what Smaug has to say.  Suppose that Thranduil didn’t have reason to suspect Smaug of setting the fire that took his wife from him, even then, he is fairly sure that Smaug’s _endearing_ personality would have generated plenty of animosity for this sort of reaction.  After a minute or so, Smaug seems to be winding down and Thranduil checks back in, “Honestly, if I can’t trust you to do your duties as landlord, I shouldn’t even bother to stay!”

Thranduil is about to tell Smaug exactly where he can stick whatever he wants, but Smaug very suddenly becomes uncharacteristically quiet.  He even draws in his shoulders getting all unimposing and small.  Having dealt with him for near a decade now, Thranduil knows that he is about to hear something he doesn’t want to, “I’m sorry, Thranduil, but I have to leave.  All this stress is just doing a number on my health.”

Smaug seems sincere, but he only acts like this when he’s trying to manipulate something out of Thranduil.  He was fooled the first few times, but now the act is as transparent as the questionable vodka that Thorin sells.   He optimistically opts to reply neutrally, “It’s been getting to all of us.”

Smaug sighs, continuing to play up this stressed and tired act that Thranduil won’t buy, “No, I need to leave.”  Smaug pauses, and Thranduil waits for the other shoe to drop.  “I’m breaking my lease.”

It takes every ounce of restraint that Thranduil can muster to not erupt.  Smaug and Thranduil both know that his lease expires in less than six months.  And if Smaug leaves, so do all of his leads on the fire.  He all but sneers through clenched teeth, “Really, that soon?”

Smaug nods solemnly, “Yes, by the end of the week.  I’ve been considering leaving for a while and this has just affirmed my decision.”

Thranduil is _absolutely_ sure that it must have been _far too much_ trouble for Smaug to be more upfront about this, there _must_ have been something that made it _completely impossible_ for Smaug to give a little warning.  He’s hardly surprised but this doesn’t calm his rapidly rising temper.  Taking a deep, drawn-out breath, he manages to grit out words without being too overtly rude, “Keep your rent for the month.  I don’t need your money.”  He turns to enter Mirkwood and he hastily adds, “Email me by tomorrow with the last day you’ll be occupying the space.”  

He violently shoves open the door, not waiting for a response from the man who had managed the impossible by getting himself higher on Thranduil’s shit list than one Thorin Durinson.  Thranduil calms himself for a moment to set his portfolio (his livelihood) on the front desk and tries to contain the outburst he feels coming on.  His failure rang loudly through the building, “Fuck that slimy bastard!”

Tauriel, flower-covered angel that she is, pops her head out of the work room with her hands in gloves and very clearly in the middle of something.  “Thranduil?  We have company,” she says with a calmness Thranduil wishes he could absorb.

“Sorry,” he replies, quietly seething.

The doorbell announces Legolas as he walks into the shop.  Thranduil, arms crossed over his chest declares loudly, “I’m going home.  Smaug’s leaving by the end of the week.  I have to write classifieds.”  Each sentence falls out clipped and short, they’re fairly rude, but he’s not really in a position to mind his tone.

“Definitely, Tauriel and I have it covered,”  Legolas replies confidently.  Legolas is unfortunately aware of how hot his father’s temper burns, and an hour or so alone with his thoughts will do him good.  It’s clear that Legolas is still concerned when he inquires, “Can I come by for dinner?  ‘round eight?”

Thranduil sighs, his mindfulness returning as he replies in a small voice, “Sure.”

Thranduil picks up his portfolio and storms right back out of the shop, starting the short walk to his flat a few blocks away.  His mind is still buzzing and clouded and he hopes that the fall breezes carry the smoke away from his path.


	2. Chapter 2

Eight AM is  earlier than Thranduil would like to be  awake on any given Wednesday, and this Wednesday is no exception.  But there’s a client coming in at 9 and his job is worth all the missed  time with his bed.  Thranduil’s jaw drops in a wide yawn as he slots the key into the front door of Mirkwood.  Letting his eyes wander, they settle on the bare windows of the empty shop and he notes the stark contrast between the warm golden light that filters out of Erebor and the sharp designs that cover the windows of his own shop.

It’s  the fourth week after the fire and Erebor is nearly restored.  Thorin has hosted a few private parties already and he wants to open to the public soon.  Just last night, he marched into Mirkwood and  gruffly gave Thranduil “a kind reminder” that the empty windows were an eyesore and (as a  tribute to Smaug) “an invitation for ruffians.”  This didn’t particularly improve Thranduil's mood at all.  In fact, a good number of the prospective tenants Thranduil had met with were put off by Thorin’s… pleasant demeanor.  (The tenant before Smaug paid the exorbitant fee to break his lease barely two months in.  Thranduil has since made it a point to introduce new tenants to Thorin before binding them to a lease.)

So Thranduil isn’t too hopeful when he wanders into the back room just after noon and sees a business card lying on his desk.

“Legolas?  What’s this?” Thranduil asks, lifting the card off of his desk.  He turns the off-white business card in his hands and feels the weight of the heavy stock paper.  A calligraphic B and F intertwine to form the logo and it’s accompanied by the name, “Bowman Flowers”

“What Ada?” Legolas looks up from the papers on his own desk, next to Thranduil’s.  

“This?  Bowman…  Flowers?” Thranduil turns the business card towards Legolas who looks up from his work and squints, jogging his memory.

Turning his attentions back to his work, Legolas replies absently, “A florist wandered in earlier.  He wants to rent the shop.”

“Ah,” Thranduil breathes out before pausing.  Considering his recent luck with luring tenants, he tries to bolster his flagging hope, “Thank you.”

Thranduil sighs as he twirls the card in his fingers.  At first he’s just inspecting the card, ( _oh, that’s a mobile number, he must get calls at all hours_ ) but slowly his thoughts wander to the shop in question.  The police never proved anything.  As far as anyone was concerned, the fire years ago was a tragic accident and Smaug’s own burns from “the stove” were entirely coincidental.  His wife’s death was a “tragic accident” and all of the little things that Thranduil saw were “coincidental”.  That one asshole investigator told him that he was just seeing things.  Thranduil clenched his teeth.  Thranduil didn’t “just see” anything.  And look at what’s happened to Erebor now.  Maybe he should’ve just kicked Smaug out years ago.  After so many years and getting nowhere, Thranduil had begun to doubt his own theories.  Maybe it was just a coincidence.  But it couldn't be.  There shouldn’t be any electrical fires, Thranduil has had all of his buildings checked professionally over and over and over. Thranduil sighs, Smaug is gone anyway, he’s had the building checked again, he might as well rent the space out.

Thranduil sits up and shakes his head, physically casting away the thoughts gripping his mind.  He sets the card to the side and refocuses on his commissions, letting the weight of his pen comfort his mind.

~~~~~~~~~

Thranduil sighs and flips on the light in his flat.  It’s on the top floor of a complex that he owns near downtown--the first building that he inherited from Oropher.   When Ospien and Legolas came along, he moved out and into a different apartment.   And after Ospien… departed… and when Legolas moved into his own place--or more precisely, when Thranduil caught Legolas riding a boy on _his_ couch and kicked him out--he moved back in.  He’s been here for about four years now, and though the contrived modern design shines with money, the apartment isn’t terribly homey.  

Thranduil tosses his gym bag to the side and pulls the water bottle out of the mesh pocket.  Seeing that it’s empty, he makes the logical decision for someone who has just come back from the gym.  Tossing the  bottle into the sink, he waltzes up to his favorite cupboard and grabs a half empty bottle of wine.  He plucks a wineglass from the rack and pours himself a glass, eyeing the papers he left spread on his counter.  Among them is the business card, burning a hole in his granite counter.  He takes a rather large swig of the wine in his hand and lets the taste roll over his tongue as he contemplates calling.  Seeing that it’s like 6:45 and figuring that Bowman must be home around dinner time, he picks up his cell phone and dials the number on the card.

It rings a few times, a few times too many and Thranduil figures that Mr. Bowman may be in the middle of dinner.  Then the line picks up and a high-pitched voice comes over the speaker.

“Heeeeeeeeelllllllllloooooooooooooo!?!”  The vowels are drawn out in the way that young children do when they finally learn how to pronounce them correctly.

At this greeting, the words die in Thranduil’s throat.  He’s suddenly taken back to a green-trim house with a picket fence and him playing with Legolas in the yard.  To high-pitched squeals and a smile that tinges his dreams with sadness and grief.  To summer lemonade and lying in the grass and doing what poor stargazing they could in the middle of a city.

Thranduil comes back to himself as he hears faintly a stern but kind voice in background of the call, “Tilda, love, can I have my mobile?”

“Yes daddy,” the tiny voice… Tilda says away from the phone.  Her father must be this Bowman character.  “Here’s my daddy,” she adds, as Thranduil clearly needs to be informed of the imminent change.

Despite the sudden trip down memory lane, Tilda’s greeting put Thranduil in a particularly good mood and he can’t help the small grin that steals onto his face.

“Sorry about that,” Thranduil stifles a chuckle as the voice comes more clearly across the line.  Mr. Bowman has a Dad Voice(tm): deep and even-toned.   The kind of voice that reads stories to children before bed and gets hired to record audio books.  Something that neither Oropher nor Thranduil ever really managed.  “Bowman Flowers, what can I do for you?”

His words trip over each other, stumbling out before Thranduil can think.  “Oh, it’s alright.”  He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and starts again, “I hear you’re interested in leasing my store front.”

“Yes, I am, as soon as possible.”  Mr. Bowman sounds relieved as if the words alone lift  a weight from his shoulders.  His formality falls away somewhat and a slight lilt creeps in at the edges of his words.

“Alright, I’m assuming you’d like to actually see the shop first,”  Thranduil says, matching the slightly less formal tone.  “Would you be opposed to meeting at The Shire, the cafe across the street?  I could show you the shop and then we could work out details over drinks, if you’re still interested.”  He pauses thoughtfully before adding, “ Also... I’d like you to meet the other tenant before you sign the lease. Some people get a bit… well…  overwhelmed.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be alright.”  There’s a naive enthusiasm in Mr. Bowman’s voice and Thranduil chuckles because it’s Thorin fucking Durinson.

“You said you wanted to move in soon…  Could you meet me around lunchtime tomorrow for a couple of hours?”

Mr. Bowman pauses for a moment.  “How does 2pm sound?” he asks.

“That sounds perfect.”

“My name’s Bard , by the way. Bard Bowman.  Thank you, Mister...?”

“Mr. Lasgalen, but Thranduil will do just fine.” Thorin didn’t get Thranduil’s first name, in fact, Thranduil had never given Thorin permission to use his first name.

“Alright then, Thranduil. 2pm tomorrow. The Shire.”

“See you tomorrow, Bard.”

Thranduil holds the phone to his ear until he hears the click of a disconnecting line.  The small grin from the beginning of the conversation had blossomed into a proper smile and a small shiver sprints down his spine.  Though Thranduil will blame the latter on a nonexistent draft.  Opening his portfolio, he makes a few last minute changes to a lineart he’s supposed to ink onto someone ( _Alex?  Adrian?  Aaron?_ ) tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~

Thranduil’s just finished with Aragorn (a scruffy little thing that Elrond kicked his way) and he is presently cleaning up the work room.  Aragorn is out front making his final payment and easy… conversation with Legolas.  Without looking, Thranduil can see Legolas blushing and staring at his feet, Aragorn’s attentions putting a shake to Legolas’ voice.  Thranduil smiles to himself and focuses on cleaning.

Finished, he wanders upstairs and back to his desk.  Checking his phone, the calendar tells him that he’s not due to meet Bard for another hour.  Thranduil picks up the sweater pooled on his desk and pulls it over his head before turning to the full length mirror that they keep in the office.  He smirks confidently at the image.  Even with his clothing covering all his tattoos and scarring, his dress habits are nowhere near conventional.  His skinny cut pants are unmistakably leather, matte surface shining peculiarly in the bright lights of the studio.  His favorite sweater is light-grey, butter-soft, and has an emperor penguin stitched onto the front.   Covering up is a precaution he always takes when meeting new tenants; Bard wouldn't be the first tenant scared away by the tattoos, even if he doesn't seem like the type to be sent running at the barest sight of ink.  

Thranduil pulls the tie out of his hair and gathers the strands that escaped while he was working on Aragorn.  Taking his phone, wallet, and the folio containing the draft lease agreement, Thranduil sets out to The Shire to wait for this florist.

~~~~~~~~~

Thranduil glances at the clock on the wall behind the counter and sees that it is one-fifty.  As usual, he's perched on the stool closest to the door.  He asked Thorin to show up at three-forty so that he actually has a chance to work out the important lease details before Thorin can throw a wrench in everything and scare Frodo witless.  He looks back down at the elk bust that he was sketching on the legal pad he brought along.  It is still a bit rough around the edges, but coming along nicely.

He drains the rest of his latte and pages through the draft lease one last time.  Thranduil has never been unprepared and he’s not about to start. The bells tied to the door of The Shire ring and he looks up.  This must be Bard.  A man nearly as tall as Thranduil stands in the far entrance of The Shire. He’s wearing a pair of very dark wash jeans (the blue is nearly black) and a white t-shirt that stretches across his chest and over his well-defined arms.  The pair of leather work boots he’s wearing are clearly well-loved and a black and red plaid flannel shirt hangs tied around his waist.   His dark, shoulder length hair is half-up so that none of it falls into his face.  He’s scanning the crowd, clearly looking for a landlord, and clearly at a loss.

Thranduil clears his throat before calling out, “Bard!  Bard Bowman?”

Bard whips his head around in the direction of the greeting and he approaches Thranduil, a haughty, amused smirk dominating his face, “You don’t look like a landlord.”

Thranduil smirks back, _two can play this game_ , and replies “Well you certainly don’t look like a florist.”

Fortunately, the stool is high enough that Thranduil and Bard are near eye level and they both make quite the show of impishly trying to intimidate the other.  Bard breaks the comfortable silence with a fact, “I clean up well.”

Thranduil replies, refusing to back down, “I’m sure you do.”

They’re both interrupted by a voice behind the counter, “Bard!”

Bard breaks away from Thranduil to look to the voice. “Bilbo!” he calls out in greeting.

It’s enough to cast Thranduil’s eyes down to the lease in his hands and he suddenly remembers that he’s in The Shire for business, not pleasure.  Though he can’t shake the feeling that Bard seems familiar.  He looks back up to see Bard talking to Bilbo.

“Ahhhh, you’re going to rent the shop ,aren’t you?” Bilbo asks, nodding toward Thranduil.

“Hopefully,” Bard replies without a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

~~~~~~~~~

Everything’s gone perfectly, so far.  After a quick trip across the street so that Bard could  see the shop properly, he declared it perfect and they travelled back to The Shire to settle in with some coffee and a bit of legalese.  They worked out rent, conduct, and the various minutiae.  Now they were just making idle small talk as they awaited the arrival of the illustrious Thorin Durinson.

“BOWMAN!”  That’s certainly Thorin’s voice booming through the cafe.  It’s a good thing Bilbo likes Thorin; Thranduil would've killed him by now.  Thranduil freezes.  He didn’t tell Thorin the new tenant’s name.

“Thorin?” Bard turns his attentions from Thranduil and recognition lights up his face.  Yes, they must know each other.  Thranduil panics.  One is not simply friends with Thorin Durinson.  Thranduil is absolutely sure that Bard seemed  sane while they were talking.

Thorin sidles up to the table that they are sitting at and Thranduil watches in utter shock as Bard stands up and their arms wrap around each other.  Their hands clap against each other’s backs in a gesture that seems too aggressive to be a hug.

Proper greeting completed, Thorin turns with the biggest smile Thranduil has ever seen on his face, “You’re kidding me, Thranduil. This loser is the new tenant?”

Still gawping, Thranduil chokes out, “You know each other?”

“Yeah, this wanker used to whore out for my rugby team back in uni.”

Bard pushes Thorin obnoxiously and cuts in, “From what I hear, I’m not the wanker.”

“Shut up. Thranduil can handle it,” Thorin replies with more camaraderie than Thranduil is comfortable with. Whether or not Thranduil could handle Thorin’s antics wasn’t up for debate (he definitely could).  Whether Thranduil wanted to handle them wasn’t.

Turning back to Bard, Thorin continues, “I had no clue you were still around, how have you been?”  Thorin and Bard are distracted by their own conversation, and Thranduil watches as the old friends reacquaint themselves.  He starts staring at nothing in particular, but not before a little flicker of a thought makes itself known.

_This just might work._

Thranduil comes back to earth just in time to see Thorin blushing, Bilbo walking away, and Bard wearing a smug little smile and  saying, “Oh, I see what’s going on here.”

Thranduil smiles into his latte that Bilbo just refilled.

Thorin clears his throat nervously, having been caught in the act, “Fuck off Bowman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar to "whore out" for a rugby team is to not be officially on the team, but to show up and play/practice whatever position they need.


	3. Chapter 3

From the kitchen of his flat, Thranduil can hear the spare key slot into the door lock and twist the deadbolt out of place.  His son is late for dinner, as usual.

“ADA!” Legolas calls out.

“In the kitchen!” He turns his attention back to the stove; the soup is simmering and the bread is warming in the oven.  Abandoning the stove, he turns to the cupboards and retrieves bowls and plates and flatware.  He’s about to walk them over to the dining table when Legolas barrels into the kitchen, snatching the dishes from Thranduil’s  hands and setting the table.

“Oh it was amazing!  Being a florist is hard,”  Legolas starts, his excitement overflowing the small kitchen.  Normally, he has time off from work, but recently he’s been spending nearly every spare moment in the neighboring shop being the best kind of nuisance for Bard.  “I ended up in The Shire today but then Mr. Bowman pulled up in his pick-up truck.  I didn’t know you could make pick up trucks look so… dainty.” Legolas speaks at a mile a minute, with the same enthusiasm  he has for all of his new passions.  Apparently flowers are now among them.

“Oh, do tell.” Thranduil intentionally eggs Legolas on, knowing that it won’t be hard to keep his son talking and distracted from Thranduil’s own slightly more somber mood.  Fortunately it was the weekend. This morning, Thranduil wasn’t too keen on getting out of bed.  Even just a few hours ago, rolling over and staring at the wall for hours seemed like a much better plan.  Normally these melancholy spells didn’t last this long, but the fire and the worry about moving someone into Smaug’s old shop certainly hadn’t helped.

It’s been almost two weeks since Bard and his flowers moved in.  Nothing has come up so far, even though Thranduil made a very distinct point of  telling Bard to ask him if anything seemed out of place or suspicious.  But it was so far so good.  Maybe Smaug had finally left his life for good.  Maybe he could set aside the slow-burning coals of this grudge.

He and Legolas serve themselves and Thranduil gets lost in the smooth orange surface of the soup which is interrupted periodically by the bright magenta spots of the  pomegranate seeds.  Legolas puts  bread and butter on the table as he sits.  Thranduil drifts back to attention and realizes that he’s missed a few key plot points of the story as there are now peonies of an impossible color ( _was it silver?_ ) all over the ground.  

Legolas pauses in his retelling and notes the way Thranduil is staring into his soup, a bit lost in his thoughts, so he asks, “So, what do you think of our new neighbors?"

"He seems nice enough..." Thranduil trails off, looking up to make eye contact with Legolas.

“He’s been here for nearly two weeks, are you telling me you haven’t even gone in to say hi?”  Legolas is slightly incredulous.  He knows that his father is a bit of a recluse, but this is a new level of avoidance.

“I haven’t even had to collect rent yet.”  Thranduil knows it’s a lame excuse, but he makes it anyway.

“Why not?  Mr. Bowman is great!” He can hear the optimism in his son’s voice. Legolas always seems convinced that his ada doesn’t get out enough.

“He’s a florist.  With young children.  What do we have in common?”  Another lame, barely-there excuse.  Thranduil tries to seem as insistent as possible.  He’s already losing this debate.

“You’re both artists, and I was a kid once,”  Legolas replies quietly.

Thranduil pauses for a moment; he has no feeble retorts left.  Legolas fills the silence.  “Don’t tell me you don’t think it’s  art. I caught the little change you made to Mirkwood’s expenditures.”

Tauriel had been staring wistfully in the direction of Bowman Flowers since the day it opened up.  It was only natural given her specialty in floral designs.  It was Legolas who finally had enough of the moping, grabbed her by the wrist, and dragged her into the shop.  They emerged half an hour later empty-handed, but the next morning, Thranduil walked into the upstairs office to find Tauriel smoothing out the most intricate and gorgeous bouquet of flowers that he had ever seen.  Flowers like that didn’t come cheap--and rightly so--but when he saw how inspired Tauriel was by such a vase of flowers simply sitting on her desk, he may have added money to the budget to keep them there.

“I’m just the landlord,” Thranduil replies, pessimism tinging his voice slightly.

Legolas pauses thoughtfully.  As was his habit, he rubs his fingertips against his lips as he considers his next words.  Legolas starts, clearly stuck by immediate inspiration,“What about those weekly meetings you used to have?”

Thranduil scoffs, “Smaug forced us to have them.”

“Bard doesn't know that,” Legolas says with a conspiratorial glint in his eye

Thranduil pauses, his thoughts weighing obviously in the air, “ _What interest would the florist have in me?_ ”

“Just trust me.” Legolas is smiling and Thranduil could never deny his little leaf.  He decides to try, if only for Legolas’ sake, and he returns a smile, feeling better than he had all day.  Thranduil tucks into his soup as Legolas tells another tale of the florist’s shop.

~~~~~~~~~

Honestly, this was the first time that Thranduil had given the shop more than the obligatory once over.  He has to admit,  he is duly impressed.  Out front, there are brown clay pots holding flowers of various kinds that hadn’t bloomed yet, all neutral shades of green with the occasional smudge of color from a half open blossom.

This all framed the large single window of the shop which changed as Bard pleased.  Some days he’d display hues of orange and yellow and red, and others, every flower would be the same distinct shade of purple.  But today, the window is a literal rainbow, the red and pink fading easily into orange and yellow with the few green blooms separating the rich blue and purple tones.  Thranduil stops for a moment at the edge of the sidewalk, stuck in his thoughts in an unusually pleasant way.

Though, Thranduil remarks to himself, standing outside the shop gobsmacked isn’t going to get anything done.  He notes the simple black and white “OPEN” sign and he walks up, gently pushing the door open.  As Thranduil steps into the shop, he can’t help the smile that steals onto his face.  Smaug had this unbearably annoying, siren-like doorbell installed years ago and Thranduil had  made a habit of going into the shop as little as possible after that.  Smaug tried to excuse the atrocity with some mention of security.  He hadn’t ripped it out when he had vacated the shop, and no one had bothered to change it before Bard moved in.  Thranduil turns to his right and smiles wider as he notes a well placed bouquet of flowers covering up a hole in the drywall.  He should offer to pay for that.  Taking it out was a public service.

He turns forward and finds the shop as well arranged as the front window. There’s a small display in the middle of the space with some  pre-made arrangements, but along either side the walls are covered in flowers.  Grouped first by color and then sorted by size, it’s an attractive and effective organization system.  Thranduil can see a refridgerator in the back showcasing some of the more delicate plants and there are large poster-sized pictures on every inch of open wall showing some of the arrangements and events that Bard had put together in the past.

The sheer abundance is near overwhelming, but a group of flowers nestled between the green and blue sections catches his eye.  Drawing closer, he sees that the small flowers cluster together in a bunch--the little florets very nearly form a sphere.  Thranduil reaches out, fingertips ghosting over the strange surface of the petals.

“Hydrangeas, hmm?” a familiar voice asks from behind.

Thranduil jumps and pulls his hand back, “What?”

“Hydrangeas, they’re not _too_ popular…” Bard smiles, whether at the flowers or Thranduil’s apparent surprise, it’s still a stunning thing.

“Oh,” He realizes that Bard is speaking of the flowers.  And turns back to look at them, "Well I think they’re lovely.”

There’s a still moment in the shop before Bard speaks again, “Was there something you wanted?”

Thranduil starts from his distracted reverie, looking up at Bard, “Oh right.”  He mentally kicks himself out of the fog that had settled onto his mind, refocusing on his original purpose for invading the shop.  “The Shire?  This Sunday afternoon?”

Bard turns to the flowers Thranduil was looking at and his face takes on a queer unreadable expression, either that or Thranduil is just expending all of his mental energy on keeping his composure and not bolting out.  Bard turns back to him with his eyes narrowed, capturing his gaze, “Why?”

Thranduil’s words stumble. He really didn’t put enough thought into what he was going to say. “To talk about business…  things...”

Bard raises an eyebrow at the vagueness of the description but a small smile creeps back onto his face as he agrees, “Yeah, sure.”

Thranduil turns to leave, but he pauses as a hand claps heavy on his right shoulder.  He turns around and Bard’s hand drifts down from his shoulder across the length of his arm.  In  hand is a white Hydrangea and Thranduil realizes suddenly that Bard is holding his hand.  Bard gives him the flower, smiling and saying, [“Here, for the angel of Mirkwood.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3853381)

Thranduil turned wordlessly to leave Bowman Flowers.  He was honestly a bit too stunned to use any rational function presently.  It was so kind of Bowman to be considerate of his neighbors, he’d lay the flower on Tauriel’s desk later.

~~~~~~~~~

Thranduil slips into The Shire unnoticed.  Frodo is shaking his head and struggling with the espresso machine and Bilbo is having a rather involved conversation with Thorin.  Their heads are bent together and they whisper things to each other and periodically one of them will laugh.  Thranduil smiles and settles in at the big round table in the corner of the shop.

He’s ten, maybe twenty minutes, into a sketch when Frodo finally notices him and pops over.  Right now, Thorin is obviously in a good mood, but using alcohol as means to bear his attitude still likely isn’t the best plan.  He orders cinnamon spiced tea.  Checking the time and realizing that Bard will be here soon, Thranduil goes over the meagre agenda and realizes that he never really was the one driving these meetings.  They usually served as an official soap box for Smaug to bitch about whatever he pleased for an hour or so on end.   In fact, these meetings were the only things that Thranduil and Thorin could  really find common ground on.  For every other hour in the  week, they were at each others throats, but for a precious two, they would sit across the table with Smaug at the head and shoot sarcastic glances at each other.  Sometimes, on especially long days, they’d write snarky notes on napkins and roll them across the table.  It seemed that hatred of  Smaug could bring even the bitterest of enemies together.

Thranduil is brought back to the present by the bells of The Shire ringing with Bard’s arrival.  He waves him over and takes a sip of his tea.  It’s fantastic, as always.  He is distracted for a moment more by his sketch, but soon a ceramic mug clinks down across the table and his eyes are drawn into Bard’s warm, open, gaze.  Thranduil glances away and picks at the cuff of his button-up shirt.  That’s when he notices that there’s plain black coffee in the mug.

Thranduil looks back up and smirks.  Somehow, his composure is still with him, “You know I’m buying.”

Bard relaxes in the chair as if he doesn't have a care in the world.  “I do now.”

“So…” Thranduil leads, “Do you want something other than coffee?  This is _The_ Shire.”

“That it is.”  Bard remains entirely unruffled, much to Thranduil’s chagrin. “And Bilbo makes some truly fantastic coffee.”  Thranduil takes a moment to stare openly as Bard looks down into his cup.  He is slightly startled as Bard looks back up and fixes him with a truly mischievous look, “Either that or he spikes the drinks.”

Thranduil starts, baffled, “With what?”

Bard nods his head in the direction of where Thorin is still sat at the counter.   Thranduil reaches a hand up to cover his smile and suppress the laugh that threatens to bubble up.  Bilbo and Thorin are still conversing quietly, leaning into each other’s space over the counter and paying very little attention to their surroundings.  Thranduil turns back to Bard.  His amusement is infectious and even with his respect for Bilbo, Thranduil can’t wipe the smile off his face.  Bard coughs, trying to cover up a bark of laughter as Bilbo motions Thorin’s attention over towards the table they are sitting at.  As he marches over, Thranduil can see that Thorin’s already ruddy cheeks are dusted with a deeper rust, and that is an image Thranduil will certainly keep for days when Erebor’s rent is late.

Thranduil and Bard have regained their composure by the time Thorin makes it to the table, which is good considering that Thorin has a reputation to maintain and that reputation might involve disposing of witnesses.  (Which Bard and Thranduil, for better or for worse, have become.)

“Well, is that bastard here anymore?” he barks at Thranduil.  Bard perks up, puzzled at the identity of this “bastard”.

“No?” Thranduil responds in a small voice, more for Thorin’s sake than his own.

“Then I don’t have time for this,”  Thorin starts.  “We’re literally neighbors. I have your phone number and I can be an annoying prick when I please,”  he draws out each word, as if there is no more obvious fact in the world.  Bard and Thranduil are clearly wasting his precious time with such insignificant matters.  

Bard turns his shit-eating grin up to Thorin before replying, “Obviously.”

Thranduil can’t stop the laughter this time.  A few vicious chuckles escape as Thorin fixes him with a glare that would melt lesser men.  He storms out with very little ceremony and nearly slams the door when another voice pops up.

“Bye Thorin.” Thorin freezes with his hand on the half-closed door as Bilbo’s melodic, smug voice halts him.  Bilbo is far more amused than Thorin.

Thorin replies gruffly, “Bye Bilbo.”

Bilbo giggles as Thorin shuts the door gently before he turns and winks at Bard and Thranduil.  Bard breaks the silence first with a few snickers that grow into proper laughter as Thranduil joins in.  After they quiet down, Bard’s green eyes are twinkling and captivating. Thranduil’s mind stutters, taking a moment to catch up with the sight.

“So…” Bard begins, tracing his finger around the edge of his mug.  “Who is the ‘bastard’ Thorin was referring to?”

“Oh God,” Thranduil replies, “You mean Smaug?” Thranduil is maybe a tad too dramatic when he drawls out the words.  It’s not near serious enough for the gravity of the situation, but maybe this is how he heals, one dramatic recounting of Smaug’s assholery at a time.

~~~~~~~~~

“I’m sorry to kick you boys out, but it’s 9pm.”

Thranduil looks up at Bilbo. He had noticed it slowly fading to darkness outside, but it hadn’t occurred to him how late it was getting.  

Over the past hours, Thranduil and Bard had talked about many things.  From their businesses (good as ever) to their favorite movies (at least Thranduil admitted his guilty love of romantic comedies) to their questionably grown-up children (Legolas was decidedly immature and Sigrid decidedly too mature).

“Oh gosh, really?” Thranduil turns back to Bard, picking up the notes of panic in his voice.  Bard had whipped his phone out of his pocket, checking the screen and biting his lip.

“Something the matter?” Thranduil asks, hoping that nothing had come up.

Having seen whatever on his phone, Bard seems to relax a bit, “No, no.  I just told Sigrid that I’d be back before now.”

“Then I’ll let you go,” Thranduil says.  Their time together had been… nice.  A bit unusual, if he were to be completely honest.  He hadn’t been so relaxed with another person in a long time.  

Bard stands up, gathering his wallet and phone and slipping $30 into the pocket of Bilbo’s coffee-stained apron.  He ignores Bilbo’s tutting and fretting about the money as he turns back around, “It was nice talking…  Thranduil.”

Thranduil looks up from his still seated position and smiles, “Same.”

Bard leaves the The Shire, and Thranduil would have tried to deny wistfully staring after him if Bilbo hadn’t witnessed the display.  Bilbo is the one to jolt  him from his thoughts as he waves a napkin about.

“I don’t think this is for me,” Bilbo says, the teasing tone not being lost on Thranduil.

He takes the napkin and smiles as he sees a string of numbers and Bard’s name signed below them.  Thranduil is confused for a moment before he sees the hastily scribbled postscript, “personal phone”, and sure enough when he looks at his folio and pen for the first time in an hour or so, the pen is askew from where he left it.

He folds the napkin into the folio and makes his own way out of The Shire and into the chill night.


	4. Chapter 4

_< 23:41> $30 is an expensive fee to send such a short message._

Thranduil let the number burn a hole in his pocket for a few hours before saving it to his phone.  It felt strange, like his stomach was still trying to decide whether it wanted to implode or jump out of his throat.  But for some reason, despite it’s oddity, this feeling was pleasant.  Novel and scary and distracting, but pleasant.

He hadn’t expected a reply when he first sent the message; not everyone kept the hours that he did.  He assured himself that yes, he is an adult, and he can wait patiently for a text from an… acquaintance.

_{06:16} Ah yes…_

_{06:17}… tbh, I was afraid that I wouldn’t follow through._

Thranduil rolls out of bed the next morning, sweatpants slung low on his hips and hair at odd angles.  Stretching and ambling into the bathroom, he pulls out his toothbrush and lazily rearranges his hair in an effort to get it to cooperate.  Hair tamed and teeth cleaned, he yawns and reaches for his phone on the nightstand.  He can’t  help the smile that breaks out as he reads the message and he types out a quick reply before finishing getting ready for the day.

_< 08:47> Yes, but you managed._

After such a pleasant start to his morning, everything rather quickly goes to hell.  First, on his way out, he gets caught up in a disagreement between two tenants.  (Yes, because a dog would certainly go out on the balcony for the express purpose of climbing up the side of the building.)  Then, the previously clear skies cloud over and dump rain for the fifteen minutes that he spends walking to work.  Finally, when he shows up at work, late from the fighting and the rain, Legolas is trying his best to manage an inconsolable client.  Tauriel had come down with food poisoning.  Even if she probably could tattoo someone whilst so sick, Thranduil declares as he stands dripping in the doorway, it is a health hazard and would not be happening in this establishment any time soon.

At this rather curt interruption, the man turns around ready to tear into this new person.   Legolas smiles sheepishly and shrugs, clearly being polite wasn’t getting them anywhere.  So Thranduil simply concentrates all of his exasperation with this morning into a venomous glare that begs the client to try and change his mind about the matter.

After a moment of staring, the man concedes to just grumbling about the inconvenience.  There honestly wasn’t anything they could do to change the situation other than offer to reschedule him for free.  Turning the client back to Legolas, he walks into the back room and upstairs to the office.

Abandoning his soaked coat on the coat rack and his backpack on his desk, he grabs his sketch pad and his phone, and goes to sit in the windowsill.  Finally with a quiet moment to check his phone without fear of drowning it, he smiles as he checks his texts.

_{08:48} That I did.  ;)_

A rational voice in the back of his head tells him that such a short message shouldn’t make him this pleased, but he opts to ignore that voice and send a reply.

_< 11:27>  Had an interesting morning…  you?_

Thranduil spends an hour or so sketching before a more agreeable client arrives.  After working on her, and then closing up for Tauriel, he doesn’t have a chance to check his phone again until later in the evening.

_{13:41} Just boring and  busy.  I don’t think people understand that flowers can’t just magic themselves into their vases._

The words warm him more than the wine he has with dinner.

~~~~~~~~~

It’s a rare lazy afternoon in Mirkwood. Tauriel and Legolas are taking up the workroom and he doesn’t have anything to be sketching out.  He’s a little short on inspiration and he’s bored.  

_< 14:05> Are you going to do anything about the hole in your drywall?_

_{14:05} And I thought I hid that fairly well._

The reply is quick, clearly Bard’s not terribly occupied either.

_< 14:06> You did.  I just know what used to be there._

_{14:06} hahahaha, Tilda got a little too excited and ran into the shop when we were first moving in.  It absolutely scared the lights out of her._

Thranduil’s mouth pulls into a little grimace.  That couldn’t have been pleasant.

_< 14:06> Oh, I hope she’s alright._

_{14:08} She’ll be fine, she’s tough._

Thranduil thinks fondly to the first call he made to Bard.  he had heard more stories since, each sweeter than the last.  There’s no doubt in his mind that little Tilda put on a very brave face after hearing such an alarming noise.  

_< 14:09> I’ll pay to fix the wall.  That doorbell was a public menace._

_{14:10} It’s alright._

Clearly Bard was going to need personal persuasion to accept the bounty for that damned doorbell.

_< 14:12> Are you busy right now?_

_{14:12} Not particularly?_

_< 14:13> Perfect._

_{14:13} Thranduil?_

Bard doesn’t get a reply other than the ringing of his shop bell as Thranduil barrells in.

Thranduil glances around the first floor of the shop and figures that Bard must be in the upstairs office.  He calls out, “Do you hear that?”

As the sound of footsteps on the second floor passes through the ceiling, he stands straight, facing the stairs with his hands on his hips.  Bard appears in the stairwell feet first and in another one of his plaid button ups.

“Hear what?” he asks with a smile on the edges of his lips.

Thranduil teases back, “The sound of endless gratitude.”

Bard turns around to adjust the chain that discourages people from waltzing up the stairs to the private office.  When he looks back at Thranduil he seems to be trying to recall some distant memory, “I’m pretty sure that all I heard was just the door bells and some wanker shouting in my shop.”

Thranduil’s smile broke into an unrestrained grin, “Precisely.”

It’s quiet as Thranduil is distracted.  His eyes take a moment to enjoy the sight before him before his brain kicks back in and remembers why he had come into the shop in the first place.

He clears his throat, there’s no point in pretending like he wasn’t staring, “Come out to lunch with me.”

Bard smiles back, clearly unaffected, “I’ll have you know that I’m a very busy man.”

“Well…” Thranduil trails off glancing toward the flowers on the wall, “it’s either lunch or I’ll be grossly overestimating the cost of repairing the drywall.”  Thranduil then turns the full force of his gaze on Bard and he compliments himself on his dramatic timing.  Bard keeps smiling, but he clearly fidgets at the ultimatum.

“Alright, alright,” he finally concedes.  Bard turns back to the counter and reaches back, grabbing a sleek fleece jacket and turning back to Thranduil, “Our usual?”

Thranduil nods in response as they walk out of the shop.  They pause a moment for Bard to flip the sign on his door to “Closed” but they soon make their way across the street towards The Shire.

~~~~~~~~~

That evening Legolas is busy in his father’s kitchen insisting that, “Yes, father, I can cook for myself.”  Thranduil laughed at the assertion just so he could watch his son’s face go all red.  Thranduil is now sitting on the couch in his living room and inspecting his glass of wine.  

Lunch with Bard was really nice.  Even though “Lunch with Bard” turned into “Sit in the Shire for hours with Bard, nearly making him miss an appointment.”  Time just seemed to melt around Bard.  Sometimes, it seemed as though Bard had nothing better to do than to stare artfully into his coffee.  He occasionally evoked the image of a marble Renaissance statue.  Others, it would just take some little mention of his kids or of flowers or of his rugby days, and he’d be off the like thoroughbred, words tripping over themselves in the rush to capture all of the details.  Bard was a good man, that much was clear.  (Thranduil was still trying to figure out how to wiggle out some blackmail material on Thorin.  Bard obviously have quite a bit, but he insisted that he was “bound by honor” to never speak of it, at least not to Thranduil.)

Thranduil is broken from his reverie when Legolas plops down onto the couch next to him, “So how’d your date go?”

Thranduil laughs, “It wasn’t a date.”

Legolas levels him with a knowing look, “It looked like one.”

Thranduil is a bit put off, it wasn’t a date.  Thranduil would know if he had been on a date.  He ignores the sentence and takes another sip of wine.

Legolas laughs quietly and then stands up to head back into the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready.”

Following Legolas into the kitchen, he finds the table already set.  They both settle in and quietly tuck into the pasta.   _This is actually quite good._  Maybe Legolas isn’t a lost cause.  Somewhat sated by his son’s performance with dinner, he clears his throat before giving Legolas the answer he is desperate for, “It was fine.”

Legolas looks up from his dinner, mischief glinting in his eyes, “Looks like it went better than fine.”

Thranduil scoffs at his son’s assumptions.  They may be true, but he isn’t about to let him know it.  There’s a moment of silence which causes Thranduil to worry that he’s actually offended his son with his dismissal, but then Legolas quietly remarks, “You’re allowed to enjoy yourself you know.”

Thranduil is not drunk enough for this conversation, “You certainly do.”

Seeing that he’s not going to get anywhere, Legolas replies with pride, “Yes I do.”

It’s Thranduil’s turn to smirk and ask leading questions, “So how’s Aragorn?”

Legolas’ previous smirk vanishes in an instant and Thranduil is fairly sure that he’s the only person who could see the faint blush that’s settled on Legolas’ cheeks, “Well…  He gets along with Gimli quite well.”

Conversation is pleasant after that.  It’s more or less small talk, but it’s an easy sort of familiarity that they’ve settled into.  After they finish, Legolas collects the dishes from the table and Thranduil gets started on the pots and dishes that are already in the sink.

Now that he’s stuck there, up to his elbows in suds, Legolas gives it one more shot, “So are you gonna tell me about it?”

Thranduil sighs again, but finally decides to just concede a little, even if just to keep his son from worrying.

“It’s nice to have a…”  Thranduil pauses thoughtfully, “a friend.”

Thranduil looks up from the dishes in the sink, Legolas looks confused, but the moment passes and Legolas is smiling again.  When Thranduil is finished and drying his hands, his phone buzzes on the counter.

_{13:42} The Shire?  This Sunday?_

_ <14:02> See you there. _


	5. Chapter 5

Thranduil smiles to himself. He’s pleased enough that he is going to spend the evening with Bard,  but as he approaches The Shire, he hears Bilbo’s voice, hard and assertive.  “Thorin!  I have this under control.”

Aside from Bilbo, the first thing Thranduil notices is the presence of two babbling characters.  Frodo--who has a cloth clutched to his hand and tear tracks down his face--is huddled into himself swearing under his breath and every so often he pokes at the cloth on his hand which only sets him in another wave of swearing.  Thorin is red in the face and his voice is barely restrained in a manner that shows that he will probably start a fight with anyone who crosses his path.  He reaches out and tries to grab for Frodo every so often.  Bilbo is between them, back to Frodo and clearly trying to keep Thorin off him.  Bilbo’s resolve is slowly crumbling.  Thranduil takes up spectating next to Bard, silently inquiring as to what’s going on.

Bard, picking up on Thranduil's unsaid question, replies aloud.  “Frodo burnt himself using the espresso machine.  Bilbo’s fine.  Thorin’s panicking.”

“Ah,” Thranduil pauses for a moment, thinking, “Should you do something?”

Bard sighs with amusement as he replies, “Yeah, probably.”

He clears his throat and walks up between Thorin and Bilbo.  Thranduil chokes on a laugh as Bard grabs Thorin by the the front of his shirt and starts shouting in his face.  Something about “Get your shit together!” and “Listen to the man, goddamit!” and “This is fucking ridiculous!”  Regardless, it seems to work as Thorin stops fighting Bard’s grasp and goes more or less limp with shame.  Bilbo pats Bard on the back and thanks him before squawking at Frodo to stop poking the cloth and ushers him off to the car.  Thranduil watches as Thorin sulks away with his tail between his legs.

“So...” Bard rocks into Thranduil with his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the closed sign that now adorns the door of The Shire.

“Do you want to go to my place?” Thranduil’s eyes go wide as the words slip out before he can stop himself. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Bard turns to Thranduil. Sensing his unease, he treads his words carefully, “Are you sure?”

He’s giving Thranduil an out…  Or at least a minute or two to rethink his invitation.  Thranduil pauses for a moment. “Yes,” he states, without the previous unsurety painting his voice.  Bard still looks somewhat doubtful, so Thranduil takes the lead, turning  in the direction of his building.  “Come, it’s just a few blocks this way.”

A wide smile takes Bard’s face and he follows.

~~~~~~~~~

The walk had been companionably quiet.  More or less a bit of small talk about work and what happened since they last saw each other.  Now Thranduil rummages through the pockets of his leather jacket, grasping for his keys at the door of his apartment.  As he slots the key into the lock, a moment of self-consciousness sweeps through him as he remembers how empty the apartment is.  But he’s turning the key, and there is no going back now, so he puts on his best most confident front as he steps into the foyer.  As he hangs up his coat, Bard comes in and shuts the door behind them.  They both kick off their shoes, lining them up on the mat by the door.

Shoulder to shoulder, Thranduil breaks the silence, “Here we are.”  He turns and starts towards the kitchen casting a look over his shoulder, “Make yourself at home.  Do you want anything?  Wine?”

“Oh,” Bard looks up from his feet with a sheepish smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Thranduil stops in the entryway to the kitchen.  Turning back around, facing Bard completely he asks, “Red or White?”

Bard’s smile refuses to dissipate as he looks back down at his feet and wanders towards the couches. “Whichever you prefer.”

“Alright,” Thranduil replies, amusement tinting his voice and he turns back around and heads into his kitchen.  He grabs two clean glasses from the rack and stops in front of the cupboard he keeps the wine in.  The glasses clink as he sets them down on the marble, but instead of reaching up to inspect his wine, his hands find themselves clenched on the edge of the counter.  It only takes a deep breath for him to will himself to relax.  After all, this is no different from their meetings in The Shire.  This is nothing more than a pleasant change of scenery.

Thranduil gives a cursory glance to ensure that the bottle he is grabbing is of red wine before  he picks the glasses back up along with a corkscrew and enters back into the living room.  Bard’s sitting on the very edge of the couch, looking a little nervous.  Thranduil is glad that his nervousness is in good company.  It helps him relax slightly as he walks over.  Setting the glasses down on the table, he opens the bottle and pours them both a glass.  Taking the glass and  offering it to Bard, he smiles.  Bard’s eyes are cast down; he clearly finds something fascinating in the pattern of the carpet.

“I hope you like red.”

Bard meets his eyes, a bit of the tension in his brow slipping away.  Taking the glass from Thranduil, he melts a bit into the the couch and Thranduil follows likewise on the couch opposite him.  

~~~~~~~~~

It takes Thranduil a moment to realize that it’s been a few hours.  Between the good company and the alcohol that fogs his brain and makes his eyelids heavy, time had slipped away quite handily.  There are more bottles littered about the coffee table, he and Bard are now on the same couch, and their sides are pressed into each other for support.  Thranduil is leaning forward, and a giggle bubbles behind his pursed lips as  he fails to open the most recent bottle of wine.  He really hadn’t meant to drink this much, but after the first glass, Bard was all too eager and Thranduil wouldn’t disappoint a guest.

His struggles are finally rewarded as the cork pops free and the corkscrew falls out of his hands, clattering on the table. The alcohol flows through him, loosening his tongue, relaxing his muscles, and making his brain feel entirely useless.  Somehow, he manages to pour himself another glass without spilling.

Bard snickers and Thranduil looks at him, wine held out in offering, “Oh, no more for me.”

Thranduil can only smile in return and he takes a sip before responding, “Suit yourself.”

It’s not as if they needed the alcohol to relax.  So far this evening had gone as many before in The Shire, save for the giggling. The giggling was new.  

As he leans back into Bard, Thranduil can’t help but notice how the dark-wash jeans stretch immaculately over Bard’s legs and how the top two buttons of the plaid shirt he is wearing have  popped open at some point during the evening.  As his eyes continue to trail up to Bard’s face, pausing briefly at a wine-stained smirk, he realizes that he has been caught staring.  His eyes lock with Bard’s for a moment as a blush crawls onto his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears.  Bard breaks first, looking down into his empty glass.  At first Thranduil is semi-triumphant for having “won”, but a queer look ghosts over Bard’s face and his previously smooth brow is crinkled in an amusing way.

The silence hangs between them  for a moment before Bard speaks, “You know-”  He turns to face Thranduil again.  The better view doesn’t help Thranduil’s efforts to decode Bard’s expression. “You never asked.”

Thranduil is genuinely puzzled at this point. “Ask about what?”

Bard barks a self-deprecating laugh before answering, “The elusive _Mrs._ Bowman”

Bard looks back to Thranduil, expecting an answer.  Thranduil fidgets slightly under his gaze, considering his next words carefully. “I know better."

Bard’s eyes spark in realization.  He breaks away from Thranduil and looks back into his cup. "Ah, I see."

Having been on the end of a pitying gaze for many years himself, he knows that some questions are best left unasked.  It’s better to wait for an answer, as he does now.  He glances back at Bard and sees that he is wavering between giving the answer or dropping the subject entirely.

Thranduil looks at his own emptying wine glass. He doesn’t want to pressure Bard one way or the other which is why he nearly misses it when Bard speaks quietly, “She left me.”

Thranduil nearly drops his glass. “I…  what?” He knows what he heard.  He just doesn’t know what to say.

Bard’s throat produces that tragic mix between a laugh and a cough and he continues, “Left me.  For someone else.  I don’t even know who.”

“Well…”  Thranduil’s lips tremble with want to say something, to say anything.   His intoxication just slows his mind down. He can’t quite form a coherent thought.  He’s just….  sad.  “Then she’s…” Thranduil pauses for another moment, trying to come up with something intelligent to say.  “Stupid!” His mouth moves faster than his thoughts and the slight ruddiness of his face blooms into a bright crimson as his mortification sets in.  

Thranduil’s new color is enough to get Bard to crack a slight smile.  Thranduil claps a hand over his mouth so that his alcohol-addled brain couldn’t make any more bad decisions for him.  Bard seems intent on continuing, even slightly amused by Thranduil’s mistake, “I just came home from work one evening, kids asleep, and a custody agreement on the kitchen table.”  Bard pauses and sighs, “She didn’t want to see us again.”

Thranduil relaxes his hand as his brain catches up with the conversation, “That’s…”  he pauses again.  There’s just not much to say when a…  friend-- _is that what Bard is?_ \--tells you about his messy divorce.

“It is…” Bard sighs again, his smile growing tired. “Shit just happens.”

The silence cloys the air as the previously comfortable points of contact along Thranduil’s side now burn with a sort of shame.  Even though he was clearly invited, it feels like he’s treading somewhere too personal, too intimate.  Thranduil clutches his wine glass with both hands to try and stop them shaking.  He takes a sip.

The spell is broken as Bard speaks up,  “You’re too pretty to get left.”

Thranduil chokes. “I... beg your pardon?”

Bard keeps his gaze fixed on his feet, but Thranduil can clearly see a redness creeping up the back of his neck.  “There’s no way your wife left you.”

Thranduil finds that his scars itch in a way that they haven’t for years.  For months after the fire, he only wore long-sleeve t-shirts and pants, covering his damaged skin.  Eventually, summer came, and with it warm weather that pooled sweat under his clothes.  Back then, he swore that it made his scars itch, as if they were begging to be set free from the constrictive material.  Damn all of the stares.  This was slightly different though.  It wasn’t an impatient itch, but a guilty one.  As if his scars were some secret that Bard had the right to know.

Thranduil scrapes his nails across his left bicep, taming the itch for just a moment more. "There was a fire."  Bard’s eyes are drawn instantly to his arm.  The sleeves of the shirt cover most of the scars, but a few poke out from beneath it and Bard’s eyes widen as he finally puts two and two together. “They suspected arson, but there was never enough evidence.”

Thranduil’s hands drift to the bottom hem of his shirt.  He makes to lift the edge before he realizes that he should probably consult Bard before taking his clothes off.  He takes a deep breath, letting his whole chest move with the effort of it.  “Would you mind?”

Bard is still fixated on the bit of his bicep where the scars show from underneath the shirt, his eyes snap to Thranduil after the question.  They’re blown wide-- _with surprise?  disgust?  pity?_ \--and Thranduil has a moment to doubt his request.

Bard suddenly comes back to himself. “No, no, not at all.”

Thranduil stands in front of Bard so that he can stare at the wall behind him.  Holding his breath, he lifts his shirt up over his head in one move.

The room is absolutely silent for a beat.  It stretches into uncomfortable territory as Bard gives no audible reaction.  Thranduil bites his lip as he looks down at Bard’s face.  He looks stricken, studying the expanse of Thranduil’s abdomen, eyebrows furrowed and his mouth drawn into a tight line.  Thranduil fidgets under the inspection.  He can only take so much.

“A-and that’s…” he stammers out.

He lifts his arms and makes to put his shirt back on, “No!” Bard’s voice interrupts him, sudden and urgent.  His hands also shot out and are now resting on the sides of Thranduil’s thighs. “I mean...” A blush crawls onto Bard’s face.  He sighs before continuing, “It’s beautiful.”

Now Thranduil can catch the glimpse of wonder in Bard’s eyes.  They remain as they are for a moment, neither wanting to break the delicate moment.  

Bard face becomes unreadable again, and before Thranduil can inquire, Bard asks, “Can I touch them?”

Thranduil’s voice catches in his throat so he simply nods his assent.  Bard takes his hands off him and tries to stand up, but it becomes clear that Bard is far more affected by the wine.  He chuckles quietly as Bard falls back onto the couch and he instead sits down, facing him.

Bard’s eyes take a moment to refocus.  He then reaches out tentatively, and Thranduil notes that at this distance, he can smell the wine on Bard’s breath.  Thranduil’s skin warms slightly as Bard’s fingers graze the bird under his left clavicle.  His fingers first trace the partial branch that it is perched upon, but they then travel further, following the feathers from head to tail.

Thranduil itches to fill the silence, “It’s a Western Tanager.”  Bard looks up for a moment before returning his focus to the tattoo. “It was her favorite.”

Bard hums in acknowledgement.  He’s heard Thranduil, but he stares at Thranduil’s chest with an intense focus.  Thranduil relaxes slightly as the inspection seems to shift from critical to observational.  The scars on his left side start just below the bird, and Thranduil can feel as Bard turns his attentions there, tracing each jagged edge that mars his otherwise flawless skin.

Bard sits back for a moment before leaning to the left and taking Thranduil’s elbow gently in hand.  He moves it to get a better look at some of the constellations that have been etched among the stars there.  He runs his thumb over the triad near Thranduil’s elbow before letting go and turning his attentions the dragon.

Thranduil jumps slightly as Bard’s fingers press cold against the dragon’s gaping jaws.    Bard’s fingers twitch away and his gaze snaps up to look back at Thranduil’s face.  There’s worry written clear in the lines of Bard’s face so he smiles and answers, “Your fingers are cold.”

The worry melts away and a matching smile grows on Bard’s face.  He then turns his attentions back to the scales that trail towards his right hip and Bard stops his fingers where the tattoo wraps  around and disappears to his back.  Thranduil shifts himself around so that he’s facing away and Bard can see his back and the last of the tension leaves his body as Bard finishes the dragon, tracing all the way to the left side of his back, Bard’s fingers skimming the skin above the waistband of his pants, where the dragon disappears to wind around his leg.

Bard turns his ministrations back to the middle of Thranduil’s back, where starting at the bottom, he follows the swirls and whorls of ink that crawls up his spine.  When he reaches the top, Bard draws a few absent circles that Thranduil knows aren’t part of the tattoo.  Slowly Bard’s fingers drag to his right shoulder blade and start winding random paths through the miniature forest he finds there.  He shivers once more and it finally occurs to him that the room isn’t particularly cold.  Bard’s right hand sits warm on his side, still brushing through the trees.

His left comes up to trace Legolas’ leaf  which sits upon the slanted place where Thranduil’s shoulder meets his back.  Then It’s gone for a moment, before it settles just to the left, covering the constellations on his arm.  Bard seems to have stilled and it takes Thranduil a moment to realize that he has hit every tattoo he could at this point, but before Thranduil can move, his brain stops.

There’s a warm, wet press of lips to the tip of the leaf and in a sudden rush, it’s everything he’s ever wanted.  He can feel the strength of Bard’s hands and the warmth of his breath on his skin.  Bard is the closest friend he’s had in years and every fiber of his being seems to ache with the release of this tension.  In this moment, Thranduil is right where he’s meant to be.

Which is why his reaction is a bit slow when Bard suddenly jerks away as if Thranduil’s skin was burning him like a hot stove.  Before Thranduil can even turn around, Bard is already at the door, hands searching frantically in his jacket pocket.  Thranduil sits, stunned, as Bard waves the screen of his phone in his general direction, “Sorry…  erm…”  Bard stumbles over his words nearly as much as he stumbles over his feet.  “Sorry, I have…  I think…”  He is putting his shoes on and there is only one thing this means.  “Sorry, ah, alright, bye.”  Then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him

Thranduil is still shell-shocked on the couch, but he crumples as his mind comes back to him.  Bard clearly believed this to be a mistake.  Why would Bard want him anyways?  All he has to offer is a few pretty thoughts and a plethora of scars.  He reaches out for the half-empty wine bottle and drinks straight from it as he grabs the throw draped across the back of the couch.  Placing the now empty bottle with the rest on his floor, he spreads the blanket over him and lets the alcohol and the poisonous memory of Bard’s hands on his skin lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> TO BE CONTINUED.
> 
> I have the second part, Anemone, in the works already and given all of the free time I'll have this summer, I plan to have it done by/around August. Would people prefer if I posted it chapter by chapter? Or all at once as with this one?
> 
> Before I go, I would like to say a big "thank you" to all of the people involved with running the Big Bang, I've been busy with school and haven't had time to read everyone's fics, but I'm soooo exicted about all of the new content! Especially the fanart, all of the fanart is gorgeous.
> 
> I'd also like to thank my brilliant artist [obiskus](http://obiskus.tumblr.com/)||[piisamirotta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/piisamirotta) who's been nothing but a joy to work with and I'm so happy she picked my lame fic to illustrate. The art is linked in the fic, but in case you missed it, [here it is](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3853381). Also there's some [extra arts](http://obiskus.tumblr.com/post/117819704749) on her tumblr here, one of which includes all of Thranduil's tattoos and it's gorgeous and wonderful.
> 
> I also want thank all of my betas. I'll be making up a proper thank you post for them on tumblr and update this once finals pass.
> 
> And thank you dear listeners, I hope you enjoyed yourself and I hope you'll stick around to see me finish this story.
> 
> HMU on [my tumblr](http://somewhatbyronically.tumblr.com).
> 
> -Ada


End file.
